Two days ago a soldier was stabbed to death in Calandia, the check point I use to enter and exit Ramallah. Of course, the result was that the check point temporarily closed and the occupational grip tightened. A reminder that daily life here is different from what I am used to.

The occupation doesn’t affect my daily life in the same way it does…say someone who lives in Nablus. My friend Sam (she and I came through Syria together) is living in a village that is notoriously the most oppressed place in the West Bank. I saw her a few days ago, and the stories she brings are enough to break my heart. The most beautiful part is her laughter as she tells horror stories. She attended a demonstration the day before we met up. It was something like the eightieth one this year in this village where the wall is being built. Her responsibility is to encourage women to attend these, and to make sure that all is “fair”—i.e. the Israeli soldiers don’t beat or shoot any demonstrators. One of the women wanted to show Sam the vegetable garden she was so proud of. The garden was right under a very gas-laden spot. Sam was saying that she’d already been gassed so much, and for a good cause, that she just couldn’t do it again for a vegetable garden. You have to find humor in a place like this.

Anyway, I take the GRE next week, and then I leave Palestine—once again. Until then I’m spending as much time with family and friends here (though I must admit that my eyes are often focused on vocabulary I’m learning for the test!). I am acutely aware of how much I value people here. Nowhere in the world feels so much like home to me. This is my sixth month over a two year period in this place, with these people. It is my land and they are my people now. I go home every night to my family: at least one of the kids attacks me with hugs and kisses. Yesterday I bought little Hamoude a belated birthday present. He’s absolutely in love with the movie Finding Nemo. He even changed his name to Nemo last Friday. So I bought him a little white and orange gold fish. I asked Hafiz, Fidah’s husband and the kids father, to drop by my friend Nadia’s house (where I hang out just about everyday because she has the best kitchen in the world! Though I have to give credit to Fidah here too for her great cooking! Food! I love food here!!!). He drove up, and I called to Mohammad. Hamoud was hesitant to come to me. I just kept calling him, “Dayl (come).” He was unsure of the black bag I held out. So his sister Shatha jumped over him and ran to me. He followed on her heels. I opened the bag to show him what it contained. His face lit up. It was such a rewarding moment in my life. Mohammad’s English is nascent—just coming into being. He listens to me and often asks Shatha to translate what I say. At which point I say no, grab his attention and say very slowly with loads of gestures and expressions, what I want him to understand. He’s learning very quickly. So I explained to him that he needed to keep Nemo in the bag for a day because he could go into shock from so much change. It sounded more like this: “Hamoude, be careful. Shway, shway. Keep Nemo in the bag. Do not put Nemo in the new water. Okay? Be careful. Don’t make Nemo nervous.” He probably didn’t listen though he looked intently at me.

When I got home that evening, Shatha ran to me. It is very common that Salam, the oldest child, is the one to welcome me home. Shatha rarely comes to me. I was surprised. It reminded me of moments over the last week, moments that revealed how much she’s bonded with me of late. She’s become a puppy dog to me. It’s lovely because she is the middle child who often feels neglected. Shatha’s so quiet that it’s easy to overlook her and focus on Salam’s dynamic and eager personality. Thus, I’ve really valued giving her attention and love lately. She ran to me and jumped up. I kissed all over her face and staring in her eyes asked, “Do you know how much I love you habibtie (baby)? I love you soooo much!” She giggled and responded that she loved me soooo much. I put her down and we walked further into the house. For the first time in the two years I’ve been coming into that house, little Mohammed ran into my eyes. My heart burst in that moment. Hamoud has always been skeptical of new people. I thought I’d gotten as far as I ever would with him. He had accepted me as part of the family, but never really bonded with me. For the rest of the night, he lavished his adoration of me—kissing my face, sitting close to me, offering me his food. I couldn’t believe it.

Fidah came home from work. Poor woman, bless her heart, was absolutely exhausted. I looked at Hamoude and asked if he had shown her Nemo. He eagerly ran to his mom (he worships his parents) and pulled her purse from her hands. She was occupied listening to her girls already and didn’t notice Hamoude. He grabbed her arm, shouting out, “Dy-lay! (Come!)” After a few tugs and shouts, she said to him that she hadn’t even taken off her jacket yet. So the clever boy took her jacket and disappeared at the speed of Mighty Mouse. He came back, grabbed her arm, and shouting, pulled her to where Nemo was. He was so proud of his fish. But he was more proud to show it to his mother and see her joy. I told Fidah that I should have bought him a fish two years ago. It would have won me his heart from the beginning. God I love that family!

I woke up this morning to Hamoud standing next to my bed. I grabbed him and pulled him to me, thinking I was getting loved. He asked me in Arabic about feeding his fish. I answered in English, “You want to feed it?” He nodded once. I continued, “Okay, one flake, and do this.” I mimicked breaking the flake into little pieces. He grinned and left. I got up and looked at the clock: 5:20. Oh well. I stumbled into the kitchen to make some tea.

“I bet you wish you never bought him that fish? Didn’t know you’d be getting woken up at 5:30, huh?” Fidah laughed.

I shrugged, “I don’t mind. It’s worth it!”

Then she asked a very good question, “I asked Hamoud how you guys talked. He said barafish (I don’t know). How did you tell him?”

I answered as Hamoud did, “I don’t know. A little Arabic, a little English. It works for us.” Then I turned to Hamoude, “Huh Hamoud? We talk. You understand me?”

“Yes! I speak English. Yes!” he shouted. That family! They’ve captured my heart, and I know that I’ve won their’s as well…everyone of them.